It was mile 8 of a half marathon in May and there I was, just trucking along until I suddenly found myself scooped up and plopped into some other dimension where putting one foot in front of the other was the hardest thing I’d ever done. My stride length decreased in inverse proportion to my effort level and the next five miles stretched out ahead of me all the way into the shimmering palm-tree oasis of infinity.
Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech. A looming, square-ish form pulled up next to me in a noxious cloud of pink smoke, all clattering engine and squealing tires. “Well? Get on! I don’t have all day!” came a gravelly bark from the bowels of the wheeled beast. I didn’t even have time to reply before I found myself somehow whisked to a cracked, sticky plastic seat halfway down a narrow aisle that was like an obstacle course with the sweaty, compression-socked calves and blistered feet of fellow passengers sticking out from the other seats. A sharp, cracked plastic edge dug into my right hamstring and the seat was so hot I thought it would melt my shorts.
This was it: my official ride on the struggle bus. Read more >>